Wild Wild West The Night of the Overdose

(AN: I edited it because I'm too blocked to write anything new :( . The horror! Enjoy, same story with less spelling error (there was only one) and comma splices.)

Night of the Overdose

Jim edged silently around the corner, cautious of how the rising sun cast a long shadow in front of him. The good news was that their target was safely stowed away aboard the wanderer, wearing Artie's burgundy suit and sipping brandy while he counted his good fortune. The bad news was that in the man's place Artie now wore a decrepit Confederate uniform, with none of his usual toys tucked into the faded frock's lining.

The uniform was not the part that concerned Jim, what did was that Artie wore it as he stood against a brick wall; head lowered against the sun, and faced a wall of supposed 'justice' in the form of an eight rifle firing squad.

Yet, although Artie's face mirrored regret and fear, he was sure his partner had a plan. What the actor didn't know was what that plan was.

Getting down on one knee, Jim closed one eye and aimed carefully between the hips of two renegade justice bringers. The muzzle of the pistol expertly aimed on the small target leaning against the wall.

The pins were pulled on the rifles like knuckles cracking and Artie looked up, squinting against the sun. He saw Jim, but he didn't like what his partner appeared to be doing, not at all.

Just as the firing squad hoisted their rifles, a shot rang outmsingeing two men as the bullet ripped between them and struck their Confederate traitor in the chest. The dark haired man was pushed against the wall, his face slack in astonishment and pain. But the squad had turned away, more curious about the shooter than the dead traitor. Behind them a man in blue stood up, returned his pistol to his belt and grinned. "You were taking too long." The stranger shrugged.

Jim pushed past them, grabbed the limp confederate off the ground, and walked away whistling with the man slung over his shoulder. He offered the men nothing more than a small salute. The squad just gapped open mouthed, unaware that they were moments away from being disarmed and arrested by the local authority.

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Something wet touched Artie's face and he felt like he was being licked by a horse. Disgusted he turned his head away, trying to tell the animal to get lost. Someone laughed beside him. The horse? What did it want? Vaguely it occurred to him that wasn't a rational thing to be thinking.

Artie writhed uncomfortably in his undershirt, muttering, but at least he was moving. Jim set the compress aside; and ran a hand over his face and through his hair somewhat wearily. For an instant relief flooded his deadpan features, but he didn't let it linger. The serum had been administered nearly two hours ago, and all he'd been rewarded with was a seemingly dead partner.

Sweat soaked his partner's brow as Artie shook his head against the cushions, still struggling with consciousness. He mumbled something like a protest when Jim put the compress back on his forehead, but settled down nonetheless under the cool cloth.

Jim took the opportunity to fix himself a drink, pouring himself a good half inch of brandy and swirling it in the glass.

"How much did you use?" Artie slurred from the divan, sounding almost pleasant in a dangerous way as he struggled around the words.

Jim froze momentarily at the question, feeling like he'd been caught with his hand in the cookie jar. Adding brandy to his cup gave him a moment to decide how to answer. Luckily, before he could, the telegraph clicked to life; the President Grant waiting for acknowledgement.

James West was beginning to loose his calm. _The straw that broke the camel's back,_ Jim thought as he filled his cup completely and went to answer the telegram. Artie's nonsensical mumblings from the divan were a comfort though, if Jim took his time Artemus probably wouldn't even remember asking the question…

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Artemus was trying to find his hands, so he'd know where they were when he wrung Jim's neck. Somewhere it seemed like someone was whispering to him interrupting his colorfully heinous thoughts… it was hard to tell what was happening around him when he felt like he was under water.

"Hmm?" Artie asked, his eyes closed, hoping that was an appropriate response. If it wasn't, well tough, that's all he could muster.

The voice became less of a whisper when its owner was shaking him. "Artie, I'm talking to you." Jim grabbed his partner by the shoulders and forced him to sit upright, where he only remained so by Jim's grasp.

Artie frowned; his large eyes opened halfway and seemed to flicker around Jim's face but never on it. He closed his eyes again, deciding it wasn't worth the effort to keep them open.

The younger man was reluctant to ask the other if Artie was okay, because if he said no it would be his own fault. His green eyes studied his partner's pale face, "Artie?"

"Jim." Artie answered, somewhat distantly, he gestured in what seemed an absent manner but Jim could tell from the growing shine and pallor on the man's face what he wanted. Quickly Jim grabbed the wastebasket, but releasing his hold on Artie caused him to slide to his knees on the floor. Jim pushed the wastebasket into Artie's hands and he was promptly sick into it.

"You overdosed me…" He mournfully mewled into the wastebasket.

"Sorry."

"You…" Artie convulsed with a muffled groan of nausea and threw up again. After a few moments breathing heavily he accepted the handkerchief Jim offered and gave his partner a sidelong glare. "You don't sound sorry."

"Sorry." That time he _really_ didn't sound sorry. "Done?"

Artie nodded, so Jim hauled him back to the divan from under the arms. Artie clutched the sofa fabric as everything spun and slumped against Jim's chest before he could catch himself. He could feel the younger man holding back a laugh and tried to pull himself up, blinking his eyes against the dizziness.

Finally he managed to sit on his own, but everything else in the room suddenly seemed to have trouble staying put. The amused look in his partner's eye taunted him as it swam past. "Jim… you drugged me…"

"I really am sorry Artie." But Artemus could hear the man grin although he didn't look up. He stared at his hands and concentrated on not falling over.

It was not working out, he started to tip forward and Jim, now behind him, grasped his shirt collar and pulled him upright.

"Can I go to bed?"

"Sorry pal," Jim said, and that time he did sound a little sorry. "We have to meet with Grant."

Artie shook Jim's hand off his shoulder and felt like he was falling, but remained sitting, "You do it." He said with a small shake of the head.

"He was very insistent; what with all the fraud and interception going on everyone has to give reports in person. Grant said he wanted us there even if one of us was dead."

"But Jim…" Artie was going to point out that it was Jim's own fault that he couldn't tell up from down then stopped, "Jim, how much did you use?"

"Well… how much was I supposed to use?"

"Oh Lord…" Artie muttered and grasped his head, "I don't want to know anymore… Jim… is someone playing a French horn?"

"No Artie." Jim answered patiently. "Sorry again, but we've got to go." He walked around the table and slipped his blue jacket on. Then grabbed Artie's, rudely directing his arms properly into the sleeves of his top shirt, vest and jacket, which had been abandoned by the man Artie had switched clothing with. Then Jim adjusted his cravat, much to Artie's annoyance, as if he were decorating a Christmas tree. "You can bring the horn player if you want."

"What horn player?" Artie asked, running a hand through his hair and getting stuck in the curls.

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They sat in the carriage and Artie admitted he was having an easier time sitting up. "See Artie, the President won't even be able to tell."

"I think I'm going to tell him you drugged me."

"Tattle Tail." Jim said with a charming smile. "You know I'm just not as good with that sort of thing as you are, plus I was in a hurry, and you know how he feels about your tactics, he'll probably have the lab removed." Jim was lying, if either of them was going to get in trouble it would be him, not Artie, for his rash action and half baked scheme.

"Would he…?"

"Don't worry, you let me do most the talking, I'll prompt you if he asks you something."

"That's… reversing the roles a bit…" Artie tried to determine which way was up from where he slumped beside Jim.

Jim guided Artie into the office, whispering, "act normal", before allowing him to enter then swept in behind with his face set for business.

Artie watched the President's hands, they weren't that fascinating but somehow he's been hypnotized because he couldn't look away… every so often Jim would elbow him and he would say 'yes sir', or 'precisely so sir'. Then Jim was clearing his throat and Grant was tapping his fingers on the desk, "Mr. Gordon?"

"Yes, sir." Artemus said, dragging his eyes up to the man's face.

"You've been uncharacteristically quiet. Do you have anything to add to the report?"

"No sir." Jim nodded slightly in approval from the corner of his vision, "Accept what my old aunt Maude always used to say." Jim's eyebrows shot up in warning. "Artemus, measure the damn drugs yourself." He slurred and slid out of his chair.


End file.

Wild Wild West, Friendship, Humor